


How To Train Your Tank

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: How To Train Your Tank [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 18:27:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9284372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: One addiction leads to another.





	

One addiction leads to another.

 **Title:** How To Train Your Tank  
**Warning:** Nonconsensual…petting? Bizarre power dynamics.  
**Rating:** PG  
**Continuity:** IDW  
**Characters:** Tarn, Pharma  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** The chin-scritches ficlets seems to have become their own series, with the sequel “Devil May Care” (http://archiveofourown.org/works/5034820).

**[* * * * *]**

“You got what you came for,” Pharma said curtly. He turned away, giving Tarn a shoulder colder than Messatine itself. “Good day.”

“You don’t seem very grateful, Pharma.” The Decepticon examined his box of harvested T-cogs, but most of his attention was on the surgeon’s stiff wings. “I would think someone in your, hmm, **position** would show more appreciation lest I reconsider our deal.”

Blue optics glared off into the middle distance. Pharma’s jaw worked, and he cycled a deep ventilation, counting to 300 to disperse the first ten immediate, unforgivably rude responses to that leapt to his lips. They wouldn’t do. His arrangement with Tarn worked because of a mutually beneficial agreement between them. Both sides got what they wanted, and adhering to a gentlemech’s agreement meant that the rest of their respective factions remained ignorant that tank and jet met monthly. 

Pharma didn’t question what Tarn told his mechs about why the Delphi Clinic stayed operational. He certainly didn’t go out of his own way to inform Ambulon that the ward manager’s everyday terror was unnecessary. The deal was a silent ceasefire between their bases, a deal only between the leaders. The mines, of course, were fair game, but the mines were why Pharma headed the clinic and the miners were how Tarn kept getting fresh T-cogs. 

Blowing up their little arrangement by telling Tarn to frag off wouldn’t do.

“You do this every time,” Pharma bit out. “I am not grateful, just as you are not grateful for that box. It’s a trade. We both get what we want. Now we go our separate ways. That’s how this works.”

“Oh, but I think you owe me a word of gratitude on top of this box,” Tarn said in his silkiest voice as his feet squeaked in the snow. Pharma turned his head to glare up at him as he walked around to look down at the surgeon. “I could destroy your pitiful little clinic, after all. Perhaps I should.”

Pharma glowered resentfully. The fragger did this every single time. Tarn fished for thanks the way some mechs fished for compliments, wanting Pharma to humble himself again and again despite the fact that depriving the morph-addicted mech of his fix would devastate him on a far more personal level than merely wiping out the clinic would affect Pharma. The clinic had been destroyed before; it would likely be leveled again someday. The Autobot medics and nurses just retreated to the more defensible mines to wait out the destruction, picked a new location, and rebuilt. It was Ambulon’s transfer that had spurred Pharma to seek a deal, because people were harder to replace than buildings and medical equipment.

Then Tarn pulled slag like this, and Pharma wondered if one ward manager was worth it.

Ambulon provided a solution for today’s version of the same old situation, however. One too many miners had questioned the ex-Decepticon’s background, and Ambulon had snapped. His imitation of a stereotypical Autobot had left the miners unable to reply, slapped in the face by their own expectations. Pharma would have reprimanded him, but he’d been doing his best to hide laughter under cool professionalism at the time. Inspired, he drew on Ambulon’s mocking imitation.

Tarn blinked under his mask as the Autobot melted. Sparkling blue optics widened, and Pharma stepped up close to him wearing a sappy sweet smile. “My **hero**! Such a good mech you are, yes, oh yes. A big strong Decepticon,” the jet cooed up at him out nowhere. Tarn backpedaled in surprise.

But Pharma stuck to him as he recoiled, reaching up to flutter his fingers under Tarn’s chin. “Who’s my protector? Ohhhh, my savior! However shall I show my gratitude to the big bad Decepticon protecting me? I have **no** idea what I’d do without my dearest Tarn. My lovely tank,” he crooned, curling his fingers to scratch among the cables and conduits under Tarn’s chin. “Such a sweetspark!”

To both their shock, the sputter of an overpowered groundframe engine turning over was clearly audible. Tarn’s mouth worked in silent protest, but his optics dimmed to a flickering burgundy as his chin lifted to offer more of the underside. Blinking rapidly, Pharma scritched down his jawline, and Tarn’s engine purred roughly. As if mesmerized, the huge tankformer leaned forward to follow the tickle of deft fingers working into his throat cables.

“There’s a good mech,” Pharma whispered, disbelieving, and Tarn hummed in vague, hypnotized panic. Barely daring, driven by curiosity, Pharma gradually dropped his hand. The Decepticon followed, neck stretching out. “Down…down, yes, like that. Oh, very good. My, you look nice like that. Shh, shh, good mech. Big, strong leader of the Justice Division, on his knees. My hero.” He slowed his fingers, rubbing harder, and couldn’t resist petting his other hand over Tarn’s helm.

It earned a quiet groan of pleasure. Tarn’s optics shut off, and he pushed into Pharma’s hands, mouth going slack under the mask.

The surgeon smiled. “I do appreciate what you do for me, Tarn, but it seems you should be thanking **me**.” 

“Mmm?” A faint, not-really-there hum answered him. Pharma pet him again, and it turned into a soft moan. “Mmhmmmm.”

Well, Ratchet had always said he had magic fingers.

**[* * * * *]**

Those jet engines were good for speed. When Pharma eventually left, he left in a hurry, justifiably afraid of the backlash.

Fortunately for his tailfins, it took a while for Tarn to shake off the daze. Five minutes after Pharma disappeared back toward Delphi, Tarn wanted to raze the whole mine and bury himself in it.

He didn’t. He refused, despite the embarrassment running red hot through his wires. Lashing out would be admitting something happened, that he’d lost control. It’d be a big blaring sign that Pharma had won whatever had just happened.

Instead, Tarn went back to the D.J.D. base and retreated to his quarters. He wasn’t hiding, no. It was a strategic withdrawal to shore up his defenses. Not that they’d helped in the slightest when Pharma’s bizarre attack happened, but he examined them critically -- not worriedly, he wasn’t _worried_ about a repeat at all -- in a search for what had crashed them. 

He found nothing. They’d just gone down. There hadn’t been so much as a second of resistance. One moment he’d been blinking at Pharma’s outlandish behavior, and the next he’d gone down in a limp, contented pile of purring engines and humming. He’d _hummed_ , for booting up cold! In front of _Pharma!_

In front of anyone else, it would have been bewildering and alarming. In front of that particular Autobot…

Tarn sat there rubbing under his own chin in search of whatever secret spot Pharma had found. It felt nice in a way he hadn’t ever really stopped to think about, but there didn’t seem to be a specific pacification point that turned off his mind and reduced him to putty. He wondered if he was missing something. He wondered what the frag had happened. Wondered if it could be done again. Under more controlled circumstances, perhaps, so he could observe it happening and regain control over his strange reaction.

How could he test it with someone? All his options were subordinates. Decepticon subordinates, at that, making the manipulative, scheming surgeon a better option simply by contrast.

It still tempted him.

He didn’t do it in the end, too conscious of his image in front of subordinates, but he hesitated a long time over wanting to try.

The bargain dragged him back to the meeting place. Pharma’s deal had come at a good time, as the previous Vos’ death had dried up a few avenues of acquisition for the T-cogs. Tarn needed those. 

He didn’t want to go this time. Reluctance constricted his treads on their wheels. 

Equally strong, an overwhelming curiosity made him go. He wanted and dreaded what he suspected would happen, and despite his forcibly calm aloofness, he knew Pharma could read him like a bookfile. The surgeon kept _smiling_. Yet the Autobot didn’t say anything, because Pharma’s latent sadism was admirable and far more under control than any Decepticon’s. Tarn could almost approve of the way the jet held him on tenterhooks throughout the polite, stilted conversation over the T-cog box.

And then suddenly here it was.

"Oh, but Tarn, I should show my gratitude."

"Ah, no, that's fine."

"No? How odd. You seem to have changed your tune quite a bit."

"Pharma, truly, this isn't ahahhhnnnn. Necessuuuh. Neccessaryyyymmmm."

"That's a good tank."

Oh, fragging Pit, it wasn’t a fluke. Pharma’s smug grin was wide enough it registered even through the delicious warm haze of pleasure and indescribable contentment that radiated through him. Tarn couldn’t manage to care. He was following the hand guiding him down to the snow, and he couldn’t stop himself, surrendering helplessly to the throbbing bliss pulsing down his back. He slumped to his knees, head in the surgeon’s lap, and in some distant, smothered part of his mind, he realized he didn’t care as long as those fingers kept massaging _just like that_. Panic ran through his wires, hot and cold in turns, but he had no control over his body. He shuddered, whimpered low, and pushed into Pharma’s hands.

Sickeningly sweet praise trickled through the fog in his mind, sweeping his feet right out from under him because -- well, he wasn’t even sure why. It felt like a direct hit to an already open wound. Bam. Finished. Down and out. That moaning sound came from his vocalizer, and the vibrating purr of his engine shook it into a hum.

Glazed-over optics dimmed offline, mind absently aware he should feel humiliated but totally not able to give a slag at the moment.

Pharma chortled.

**[* * * * *]**

The first time was a shock.

The second time was a suspicion.

The third time was nothing but shame. 

He wasn’t a complete fool. He saw who had the power, here, and it wasn’t him. In light of that, the third time almost didn’t happen at all. He went back and forth the whole month about canceling the deal in order to avoid putting himself back into a situation guaranteed to end badly. 

Cancel their meetings. Go back to destroying the clinic between raids on the mines for shipments of nucleon to send back to the Decepticons on Cybertron. Deliberately target the Autobot medical personnel this time, and wipe out any witnesses to his humiliation.

Don’t cancel the meetings. Keep his T-cog source and allow the Autobot to live. Accept the embarrassment of Pharma’s cackling glee as the price he’d just have to learn to pay in return for that long, blurry period of strut-melting pleasure at his hands.

Cancel the meetings. Find another source for his T-cogs and have the short-term satisfaction of ripping Pharma to pieces for discovering this alarming weakness in his defenses. End the threat before it could spread and damage his reputation.

Don’t cancel the meetings. Rely on Pharma’s controlling nature to keep the strange pacification point as secret as their deal. 

Cancel the meetings. Keep his dignity.

Don’t cancel the meetings. Admit he might have another addiction, this one with an extremely limited number of sources. One very smug source, at the moment. 

Tarn was a dreadfully conflicted mech that month. It put him a foul mood like none other. He spent a lot of time staring off into the distance outside the base, elbow in one hand while the other hand rubbed slowly under his chin. He looked like he was thinking dire thoughts.

The rest of the Justice Division put it down to Overlord’s continued evasion of their searches. They redoubled their efforts and rushed about the base like Tarn would strip them of their names and pitch them out into the snow for being disgraces to the Cause. Which was unfair to him. It’d take more than a bad mood for Tarn to do that. He only thought about it once or twice, tops.

Helex started getting really nervous about how Tarn kept looking at him while in that thoughtful pose. There was just something weird about it. Tarn’s fingers worked in the cables and conduits under his chin, and his optics were narrow, not quite suspicious but Helex didn’t know what else it could be. He found an excuse to hunker down in the maintenance bay for a while, hiding from that considering gaze.

Meanwhile, Tarn’s thoughts had been ping-ponging between _‘extra hands’_ and _‘but subordinate.’_

It was a relief to both of them when Helex kept out of sight.

The end of the month came too soon. Tarn hadn’t decided a fragging thing. The time for the meeting crept up on him. He opened up a commline a dozen times, determined to cancel the meeting and frag the consequences, but.

But.

Tarn rolled out onto the snow, convinced the reasons against going were somehow less than the reasons to go. That was the problem with addictions: a mech could always justify them to himself.

The first time, Pharma took him by surprise.

The second time, Pharma took advantage of a weak spot.

The third time, Pharma didn’t lay a hand on him.

“Thank you for agreeing to this deal. I don’t know **what** I would do without it,” the surgeon said sweetly as he handed over the box of T-cogs. “So kind of you. Now if you’ll excuse me, duty calls.” He turned on a heel, ready to go.

Tarn nearly fumbled the box. “I…” Resetting his vocalizer, he straightened as Pharma tossed a coy look back at him. “That’s -- unexpected of you.”

A smirk flirted around the edges of the Autobot’s mouth. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m always conscious of duty. Aren’t you?”

It was sinking in what Pharma was doing, and it wasn’t a good feeling at all. “Of course.”

“Hmm, yes. Now, unless there’s something **else** you require..?” Pointed hinting and mischievous optics just waited for him to _ask_ for what they were both aware he’d come here expecting Pharma to do for him. To him. Because otherwise Tarn would have canceled the meeting, or set up a drop-point, or _anything_ other than transform and stand here uneasily shifting from foot to foot as Pharma landed and approached.

That sneaky, smug, sadistic surgeon. Clever Autobot with the clever fingers. 

“No, that will be all,” Tarn forced out, and Pharma tossed him a cheery two-finger salute before launching back into the clear Messatine sky.

Tarn stomped down the urge to call him back. He ground his heel on it. He tried to forget its existence. 

It didn’t die. His pride mewled as it withered before it.

That was the other problem with addictions: the craving persisted until a mech justified another fix.

Oh, this wasn’t going to be a pleasant month in any way, shape, or form.

**[* * * * *]**

Addictions were the worst thing that could happen to a mech. Tarn would know.

"Say it~" Pharma coaxed. The smug surgeon perched on the snowbank as though he weighed less than a feather. It infuriated Tarn to no end that someone so delicate held his pride under one heel.

But hold it hostage Pharma did, and Tarn couldn’t help but capitulate. "I want," he gritted out, "you to," he had to shut off his optics, "rub under my chin." Congratulations to himself for managing to get those four thoroughly undignified words out without rushing or mumbling. He still felt completely ashamed of buckling under Pharma's sadistic needling, but at least he had a molecule of dignity left to his name.

Right until Pharma flitted off the snowbank, landing close enough to touch. "All you had to do was ask," the surgeon crooned, and Tarn's snarl cut off as fine fingers scritched up under his chin.

They worked in among the cables, stroking between taut lines and running down wires. Tarn's engine turned over, dropping from a surprised rev to a low purr, and glaring optics blurred. The lenses dilated wildly, one wider than the other. Softly moaning, the much larger mech melted to the snow. He’d follow that hand wherever it led.

"Down, down. There's a good 'Con," Pharma whispered. He cradled the back of the Decepticon's head in his other hand, thumb tracing around and around the audio receiver. His other hand settled into a steady rhythm, fingers rubbing just hard enough against Tarn's throat to really make the tank lean into him. "Very good. Was that so hard? Did you have to fight this quite so much? Stop resisting. You like being on your knees before me. You like being a good pet."

Tarn wanted to fight those words, protest the insipid label put on him, but the snow-covered land around him seemed to have melted into warm cotton miring up his gears. His thoughts slowed. Separated. Sank into puddles of blissful relaxation, like sliding into a hot oil pool. 

He could never remember during why he dug in his heels before. It was only afterward that he realized what a private, personalized Pit this addiction had crafted around him.

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
